


Songs of Intense Listening

by Affirmed



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Through Victory Tour, F/M, Fantasy, Insert Witty Tag Enticing You To Read Here, Magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-03-30 21:48:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3952963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Affirmed/pseuds/Affirmed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Katniss decided Peeta was worth the risk? What if they found a way around the Quell reaping? Canon through the Victory Tour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Offering

AN: Mockingjay dragged my heart across a cheese grater, so I decided to WRITE THEM A HAPPY ENDING. TRY AND TELL ME IT'S NOT CANON. *cough* I'm fine, I'm fine. Anyway, this is a slow burn deviation wherein the events of Mockingjay do not transpire. I'm trying to coax myself back into writing for pleasure, and thus far it has proven about as surmountable as Mt. Everest, but hopefully the pull of Everlark will help. I do hope it provides a pleasant reprieve from reality.

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"And so I begin; and I take it as a good omen that I commence this testament of my longing in these days that by a year's length follow those when, with kindred longing, I walked toward something vague and uncertain and didn't know yet that you are the fulfillment for which I was preparing myself in songs of intense listening."  
\- Rilke, A Love Story in Letters

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Today annoyed him, in the same manner that yesterday had aggravated him and tomorrow would likely find him several hours closer to a breakdown. For all the psychological torture it imparted, the Victory Tour had at least brought him and Katniss closer together for a series of transitory moments wherein he could entertain the delusion that the remainder of his existence would amount to more than one overwhelming hobble through the murky swamp of solitude.

He slammed a clod of hapless dough against the counter, a strong exhalation of flour spurting into the air. The unrelated knock ricocheting from his door down the hall prompted a full-body jolt before he actually froze in place with one hand suspended in the air and the other immersed in dough, long-embedded reflexes associating the sound with his mother's dissemination of a punishment, because how dare he waste flour, how dare he execute any movements deviating from the bare minimum to produce the desired product, how dare he not be female, how dare he exist…

After a few moments of quivering immobility, Peeta reclaimed his appendages and considered several possibilities as to the identity of the person knocking as he ground his palms against his pale blue apron and closed in on the door. Haymitch in a rare swath of sobriety, to impart some directive which Peeta would have zero interest in fulfilling. His father, having magically sprouted a pair, to inform him that he had finally decided to move in with Peeta in Victor's Village. Gale, to clock him soundly for having the audacity to harbor sentiments for his longtime hunting partner.

The absolute last person he would have expected, whom he had not even considered as a possibility, awaited Peeta as he swing the door inward.

"Hi," she peered up at him with wide eyes, her countenance calling to mind a cornered cat he had once watched his brother try to capture in a friend's basement, its movements frantic and frenzied and determined not to relinquish its freedom.

"Hi," he squeaked, completely unable to formulate anything resembling a coherent response.

"So, um..." Her eyes flickered from him, over his shoulder, to the doorframe, to the floor, to her hands, the fingernails of which she promptly proceeded to start picking. "I just..." A hand flew up to twirl some nonexistent stray hairs behind her right ear. "You're here alone, and…"

Oh. Pity. Wonderful, just wonderful. "I'm fine, Katniss. You don't owe me anything anymore."

She startled, seeming confused, before plunging forward. "No! No, I just... It was more..." She sighed and closed her eyes for a moment, then pried them open with seeming Herculean effort. "Doyouwanttohangout?"

He stared blankly for a moment, parsing apart the words. "Hang… You want to hang out?"

"Only if you do," she hurriedly amended. "You don't have to. I m-"

"I'd love to," he interjected, and before he could issue another word a small, dark mass slammed against his chest, slight arms curling around his thick barrel. He raised his arms reflexively to return the spontaneous hug.

"I missed you." He barely heard the whisper as her words emerged mashed against his shirt.

"Me too," he replied, dropping his head to rest his lips on her hair. It seemed as though the universe had encased him in safety and dappled him in contentment while bathing him in brilliant light. If only his arms had the same effect on her.

After a few moments of her clutching Peeta as though she considered him something precious as opposed to irritating and disposable, he lifted his chin and she pulled back to look up at him. For a moment they just shared space before she must have sensed a pressure to kiss in such proximity and pulled back in a fluster of nerves, the air seeming to echo her sentiments, quivering like an explosion of beating feathers. He decided she couldn't possibly be more adorable.

"I hunt in the mornings, but that's about it." She shrugged.

"Want to come by after you're done hunting tomorrow?" Her face seemed to fall a bit. She couldn't possibly miss him so desperately that the delay of a few hours would seem the eternity it would for him? Wouldn't that kind of response suggest a romantic interest in the other person, the kind of impatient drive for another's company typically indicative of something more fervent than friendship?

"I was just starting a batch of cookies," he quickly amended, trying not to read too much into the way her eyes brightened, almost with something resembling hope. Likely a trick of the light. "I know baking's not really your thing, but you're welcome to join me? I'll teach you how to frost."

Her traditional scowl melted into a rare, small smile, and she nodded. He stepped back and exerted every effort to squelch the fluster of nerves that pinged around his stomach as she passed, even the displaced air seeming brighter for having encountered her.


	2. Cloves

**AN: For the past two years, the composition experience has rivaled the process of extracting water from a rock in terms of seeming impossibility, so I’m attempting to keep the chapters short in the interest of regular updates. To those who subscribed to this story distributed kudos: I regret that I cannot adequately convey my gratitude. :D**

 

Their houses featuring identical layouts, she found her way to the kitchen without prompting. Following her down the hallway, he noticed with no small degree of pride that she cast her gaze toward the rows of paintings adorning both walls, wondering what the saw, if perhaps she wondered about what _he_ thought whilst painting them, before his mind whirled in a circle like an overly-enthusiastic puppy bounding after its tail and finally collapsed into a heap.

 

Trailing a respectable length behind her, he trampled the urge to reach out and touch her ponytail, twine her hand in his, press his nose to her hair, something, _anything_. In the interest of self-preservation, he lodged his palms safely in the back pockets of his pants, where they couldn’t embarrass him or act of their own volition.

 

As she wandered into the kitchen, Katniss’ head tilted at a peculiar angle, and only after Peeta rounded alongside her did he realize she had thrust her dainty nose into the air, taking a few short sniffs. “Ohhh, that smells amazing,” she issued one of her rare smiles.

 

“Gingerbread cookies,” he felt his mouth tug into a reciprocal gesture.

 

“I’ve never heard of them, but they seem _magnificent_ ,” Katniss surveyed the explosion of bowls, spices and ingredients scattered across the counters. “And… involved.”

 

Peeta genuinely chuckled, his voice almost cracking around the edges at the unfamiliar action. The sound seemed shrill, amplified exponentially by an inner ebullience inspired by her mere presence, unnatural even to ears that had canvassed the sound for years. “Like I said, I could use some assistance.”

 

She curtseyed lightly, “At your service, my liege.” Peeta wondered if this was how she behaved around Prim, the buoyant, almost bouncing levity of her personality that split through the cracks of the determined survival mode most of the world perceived.

 

He arranged her at the dry ingredients and demonstrated the proper manipulation of a whisk before setting to his own self-imposed task of the wet ingredients. After retrieving the milk and eggs from the refrigerator, he He turned and almost forgot himself as he just gazed at her, positioned at the island in his kitchen, mixing frosting as though she belonged. What he wouldn’t give to coax her into remaining forever, ensnare her as she traps hapless bunnies wandering through her woods, not with twine and knots but with love and touch, an irreversible future into which she entered willingly, happily.

 

So many questions burst into existence and battled for supremacy as his hands operated on autopilot, clotting on the tip of his tongue as he just gawked at her in what he supposed one might interpret as a foolishly dazed manner. What’s your first thought upon waking? How do you fill all the hours school used to occupy? Could you please account for every second of every day since the last time we spoke, as I don’t want to miss a thing? He finally settled on something comprehensive yet suitably innocuous that she wouldn’t feel smothered by the inquiry. He hoped. “So how have you been spending your time?”

 

“Killing it, mostly,” Katniss’ mouth pulled into a wry expression, glancing up from her whisking duties. “It’s strange not to have a focus.” Peeta let the silence sit for a moment, hoping she would elaborate once her thoughts settled. “I always had a clear-cut schedule, before. Hunting, school, homework. Every minute was accounted for. Now I just kind of... drift. There’s a lot of pacing. I feel...” She paused to puff some air from the right side of her mouth in pursuit of a dark strand that had toppled into her face. It quivered for a moment before plastering itself determinedly into her line of vision.

 

Unable to deter himself, he simply watched his hand ascend and gently tuck the offending tendril behind her ear. “Lost?” he prompted.

 

Her hands stilled and she peered up at him with a small smile, “Yeah.” The urge to bend down and kiss her flushed through him with such fervency that he forced himself to step backward, lest he succumb to impulse and send her careening through the front door, screeching in terror.

 

Instead he leaned down toward the bowl before Katniss’ motion recommenced and sniffed. “More cinnamon,” he muttered.

 

Her brow furrowed as he retrieved the spice. “How can you tell?”

 

“Make these enough times and you can smell when a single spice is out of whack. Plus, cinnamon’s pretty strong, so it’s easy to pick out in this instance.” His arms seemed to burn beneath her gaze as she observed him toppling the brown powder into the bowl, then motioned for her to continue whisking the dry ingredients.

 

“I wish I had a hobby, like you.” He actually started at her voice, expecting the silence to lapse until he devised another conversation topic.

 

“Well, if you wind up enjoying this, that’ll be one.” And I hope more than anything you do, because I can’t stand not seeing you every day.

 

“This is _your_ thing, though,” she protested. “Is this good?”

 

“Perfect. So, in here,” he motioned to the large blueberry-hued bowl that had been his charge, “I have butter, brown sugar, eggs, vanilla and molasses.”

 

“And this is...” She scrunched her delicate nose. “Flour, baking soda, baking powder, ginger and cinnamon?”

 

“And cloves,” he smiled. “It adds a little punch.”

 

“Just as long as that beating devise doesn’t punch me,” she eyed the electronic blending tool he had just finished using.

 

“Was that... almost a joke?”

 

Her mouth trembled as she clearly fought to maintain a placid expression. Her lips refused to cooperate, quivering and bouncing into bizarre shapes with the effort. “They happen, on occasion. So what now?”

 


	3. Baking

"So, now we have dough... the fun begins." Peeta produced a large tin from the corner and popped off the top, unable to contain his smile as Katniss eagerly peered over his arm, not even waiting until he had deposited the container on the counter. Her chin brushed against his arm, a few errant strands of dark hair whispering against the inside of his elbow, and the entire limb seemed to crackle. "These are cookie cutters. Instead of just round cookies, we can produce different shapes."

Katniss reached forward to rustle around the container as he rolled the dough. At her quiet gasp, Peeta glanced up to find Katniss had plucked a green tree mold from the bin, raising both it and her eyebrows wordlessly.

Peeta unsuccessfully attempted to fend off a sheepish smile. "I... may have put in a few requests," he admitted. It had seemed like a great idea at the time. In fact, Effie, acting as liaison, had trilled something about thoughtfulness. But maybe it actually qualified as first-class pathetic. At the time, he hadn't even known whether the two of them would ever converse again absent the chaperone of a camera. Maybe he was just a pathetic little puppy trotting at her heels, desperate for attention -

Katniss' smile could temper even the fiercest north wind, he decided, swiftly dismissing his previous ruminations. She not only noticed but seemed equally delighted with the other pieces he had selected with her in mind: a duck, a bounding deer, a lopsided leaf, a rabbit with floppy ears, a second type of tree, a squirrel with a thick tail, and a musical note. To his surprise, she also seemed quite enamored with a cutter resembling a cantering horse, actually bouncing the mold lightly along the counter for a few quick taps to simulate the lilting gait. For a moment the young girl emerged, replacing the somber version forced by repeated hardship and the dead weight of responsibility to mature before her time. "I didn't know you liked horses?" he inquired.

"Well, I've never actually known any," she admitted, positioning the mold atop the dough before piling her hands atop each other and pressing firmly. "But I've seen pictures. They're so beautiful. Like deer, but more majestic."

Where in the world would he come up with a horse? And where would he keep it? What did they even  _eat_?

Eventually, they piled the trays of cookies into the ovens and the silence dangled over them as they tended to the bowls and spoons, hovering like a glowering chasm needing to be filled.

"So-"

"'I-"

They both shuffled awkwardly, the nervous rustling of hesitant acquaintances. Which was rather ridiculous, all things considered, but reason appeared perfectly content to avoid involving itself with matters of the heart. Sometimes it seemed like as soon as Katniss entered the equation, he couldn't keep from dissolving into a blithering idiot. Probably made quite the impression.

He didn't expect Katniss to actually break the silence first. "While they're, you know, preparing themselves. Plotting. Doing whatever cookies do in there."

"Baking," Peeta prompted.

"Baking," Katniss echoed, trailing off as her eyes cast about, seeming to have lost her thought.

"How about a game of chess?" Peeta motioned behind him toward the general vicinity of the fireplace.

She offered a tiny shrug, coiling her fingers and some dark hair behind her ear. "I don't know how to play."

Of course; he should have guessed. It didn't immediately correlate to survival, so Katniss had lacked the time and inclination to pursue the matter. "I can teach you," he volunteered, not having the slightest idea how he would accomplish that.

As they perched on opposite ends of the tiny table in front of the fire, she scrunched down to peer at the pieces. "You've painted them all!"

"Haymitch gave me one of his sets, but the pieces were this drab, kind of blank tan colour," Peeta shrugged. "They were just asking to be decorated."

"I think this one's my favourite." She produced a dark green knight, its mane a burnt orange reminiscent of leaves a few days past the red portion of their brief existence.

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" He noted with some degree of concern that slim half-moons of dried blood rimmed most of her short fingernails, where she had torn away the cuticles. He noticed her frequently worrying the area with her teeth, typically when she abandoned her surroundings to pursue some extensive thought in her head. He wondered what turmoil occupied her. Or what had her more agitated than usual, anyway, the cruising altitude of mental anguish for victors hovering considerably higher than that of the general populace.

She caught on to the game quickly enough, despite not seeming to have any particular affinity for it. Peeta didn't either, he supposed, but it helped temper his nerves to have an external focus.

Peeta really had no idea what to talk about. For all the proclamations of his supposedly gilded tongue, it never failed to abandon him in true times of need. Like when the girl he'd admired for the majority of his existence actually inhabited a position that she would hear them, a marked improvement over the lengthy conversations he had carried over the years with his shower tiles. Which, inexplicably, had not provided much by way of feedback.

After the cookies cooled, they abandoned the chessboard without declaring a victor and brought the pumpernickel-coloured cookies to life. He found himself suitably impressed with her decorating skills, despite her extended lamentations about her inability to craft anything resembling a decent flower.

"How do you line up all the petals like that?" she huffed, leaning on her elbows with a ginger tree awaiting attention between them.

"Practice. Years upon years of practice," he smiled. "Usually with my mother hovering over me, clutching something of considerable weight and waiting for me to make a wrong move." At the scowl that ensued, he barked a laugh and reached over to tap the end of her nose with the clean end of his lavender icing tube. "Guess you'll have to come over and practice every day until you get the hang of it."

Her mouth toppled into the slightly-lopsided formation that indicated a blend of shyness and happiness, one of the rarest specimens in the Katniss expression arsenal. "Guess I will." She set about producing small bursts of piping, clearly seeking to emulate an evergreen.

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Finally, the phrase he didn't want to hear but had known would eventually come. Of course, Katniss needed to return home and prepare dinner. She had a house, and a family, and people who loved her. He had a lot of silence and empty space.

He reflected on this as she smiled sweetly and thanked him for the afternoon. She seemed quite genuine in her sentiment; though, with his track record, Peeta supposed he shouldn't trust his assessment in that regard.

She took a half-dozen steps before she turned back, seeming unsurprised to find him still watching her. Though perhaps he was just projecting. "Why don't you stop over for breakfast sometime?"

"That'd be nice," Peeta did not even bother attempting to temper the grin that split his face and crinkled his eyes. "Sometime."

In an event roughly comparable in frequency to Haley's comet, Katniss actually  _echoed_ his grin. It seemed as though the sun channeled the entire strength of its beam across the pair of them, hapless wanderers through a disorganized universe who had stumbled on momentary delight. "Tomorrow?"

Peeta tipped his head in a nod, bangs toppling into his vision. "Tomorrow."

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**To the two of you who reviewed: please check your windows regularly, as a previously-unladen swallow (air-speed velocity to be determined) shall arrive shortly to deliver a fresh batch of cheese buns from Mellark's. I'm a borderline pathological perfectionist and tend to critique myself into either not continuing a story (hence my multiple single-chapter stories) or thinking my ideas are not unique enough/worth developing; hence, your feedback is absolutely** _**invaluable** _ **to me. Every review, irrespective of length, is like a sparkler of inspiration. To be honest it still reads like undercooked crap to me, but I'm forcing myself to keep posting things. Love and warm Peeta hugs!**

 


	4. Sticky Buns

The next day, Katniss reluctantly pried herself from the cocooned coziness of her sheets and stumbled toward the bathroom, fishing crud from her left eye and wondering how she had managed to oversleep when she barely slept at all. She must have toddled into a twilight zone in the wake of that particularly virulent nightmare about a pack of mutts, each sporting her own eyes trained upon her human form with singular bloodlust.

After conquering her toothbrush, she started to wash her face only to find the water resolutely determined not to budge from a frigid temperature reminiscent of ice in February.

"The damned hot water is out again," she hollered, trotting down the stairs. "They must have rescinded my victor privileges."

"I'm sorry to hear that," a familiar voice replied calmly, as she crested the corner to tumble into the kitchen in a rustle of sleepiness and mussed hair. A male voice.

Sure enough, Peeta sat at the table, his hands casually positioned in repose adjacent to a sketchbook, in proper pants and a white t-shirt, seeming impossibly well-dressed and collected and calm at an hour any humans besides the baker's son and the hunter's daughter would consider completely indecent. She found herself suddenly hyperaware of her meager attire, a barely-oversized t-shirt that ended halfway up her thigh and some old socks, having flat-out refused to alter her wardrobe in deference to her new victor title and housing.

"I-" She mouthed blankly. Her hand flew up to her head; in a pique of fatigue, she had tumbled into slumber without a braid; as a result, after a night of abject restlessness devoid of actual rest, the strands had shuffled and stuck in various directions like the patchwork assembly of a bird's nest. This motion, of course, caused her shirt to inch up her legs, and she whisked her hands back to tug the material down, which tightened the fabric over her chest. She finally settled on wrapping her arms snugly around her. That couldn't cause too much trouble, could it?

Peeta just continued to regard her calmly, seeming amused.

"I hope you don't mind," he smiled, as though she hadn't just almost spontaneously combusted from embarrassment in front of him. "Your Mom said I could wait for you."

"No," she shook her head, then quickly rushed to clarify, her words tumbling over one another. "I mean, of course. I mean, yeah, no problem." Finally her words collided and toppled over into silence. This is why she didn't bother talking most of the time.

"You did invite me to breakfast," he pointed out, his smile evolving into a flat-out grin.

"I did!" Katniss affirmed, a bit too loudly. "I was hoping you might bring those sticky buns. And you did," she blathered, noticing the plate of delicious rolled pastries positioned on the table, their layers shadowed by slabs of cinnamon. The luxurious white liquid drooled tantalizingly over the sides and pooled on the plate, recalling the few occasions she had experienced its brilliance. Her father had brought one for Christmas one year, and particularly in times of intense deprivation the bright, intensely-sweet sauce would echo bleakly on her tongue. She felt her taste buds pool saliva in her mouth, eager for the anticipated infusion of flavours. "I mean, I didn't just ask you so you would bring something. I did want you to come. Come over. To see you."

"I've never seen you babble before," Peeta had settled back in his chair and was now observing her with a tilted head. His expression once again registered amusement, and in a rush of indignation she suddenly found herself summarily dismissing his feelings. Considering them exhausted her, anyway.

"Well, if you're just going to smirk at me," she huffed, turning away.

She had only intended to retrieve some water, but evidently Peeta read her movements as an impending departure. He quickly interceded, "Oh, I'm just kidding. It's cute."

Despite her annoyance, she felt herself flush at the suggestion of him finding her anything other than imposing or murderous; how, by turns, others viewed her and she viewed herself.

She approached the table again, depositing her water glass on the table and hovering awkwardly for a moment, deliberating whether to sit across from him, which could be read as rude, or next to him, which one could consider overeager. Across could seem confrontational. Next to could be unwelcome; nothing like an invasion of personal space to inspire annoyance. How did girls do this all the time? Was there a manual for this somewhere that she could peruse? She finally deposited herself unceremoniously in the chair next to him, deciding the convenience of selecting the closest chair could disguise any other perceived motives.

Peeta must have attributed her hesitance to fatigue, as he watched Katniss reach forward to retrieve a sticky bun and remarked gently, "You haven't been sleeping." An observation, not an inquiry.

She glanced over at him briefly and issued a quick shake of her head before tucking into the bun. The light flakes all but dissolved in her mouth, the thick swath of cinnamon rimming the inside sparking them with a bright flavour that at once quelled her nerves and brightened her senses. She could subsist quite merrily on these for the remainder of her existence, Katniss decided. Perhaps interspersed with the occasional cheese bun. These for breakfast and cheese buns for dinner every day would work beautifully. Peeta had successfully captured an evening gathered around an illuminated hearth with family, laughing and teasing without a care, and converted it into a taste.

With options like this to ingest on a regular basis, she understood why Peeta's frame stayed stocky, just this side of overweight. Not that she devoted any measurable amount of time to analyzing Peeta's body, of course. Or any at all. She just occasionally noticed the degree of muscles roping his arms and cresting over his shoulders. His perfect shoulders.

Anyway.

The positively delectable icing dripped onto her fingers, still slightly warm from application. "Ohhhh, this is perfect," she mumbled around a glorious mouthful, using her pinkie to scoop some errant icing off her lower lip. Peeta's eyes honed in on the movement and she quickly forced the hand back to the table, feeling sheepish.

"I haven't either," Peeta muttered.

"Nightmares," Katniss prompted.

"Yeah." For a moment silence punctuated by Katniss' gleeful chomping reigned, before Peeta continued. "I miss sleeping with you; it always made them easier." Peeta blanched, and rushed forward. "I mean, not sleeping with you, just…"

He seemed completely flustered, almost panicked at his potential vocal infraction, and she found herself reaching without thinking to lay her right hand over his. "I get it. I slept better with you, too." He exhaled, seeming relieved, and his eyes flickered over her face. She wondered what he saw.

After a moment she felt his hand turn over to intertwine their fingers, and glancing down inspired a fresh thrum of embarrassment. When would she ever get the hang of this people thing? "I got you all sticky," she muttered, attempting to rescind her hand. She felt his fingers tighten on hers and abandoned the effort, marveling that all the air seemed to have instantaneously departed the room. She struggled to acquire a breath.

For a minute that seemed to stretch hours, movements conveyed in shutter speed, her eyes tracked their hands as he raised them, pulling her pointer finger past his lips. His tongue scooped the pad of her finger as her pulse throbbed at such a volume she feared he would remark upon it, or the air to begin thumping with the rhythm. She marveled at the coursing rush of hushed anticipation that rushed through her, kept waiting for the flight urge to descend, pleased by its absence.

Just when she expected all the nerve endings in her body to spontaneously combust, the front door opened, the seal ripping from the wall and thrusting them mercilessly from the self-contained bubble they had both inhabited for a brief moment. They both jolted backwards, Peeta appearing just as shocked as she by his behavior, though she certainly couldn't say she minded. After a moment and a few footfalls Prim appeared in the doorway, her wise-beyond-years eyes flittering between them for a moment before she smiled and bade them good morning, conveying news of a recent birth which Katniss barely registered as she struggled to control her breathing. As Prim demolished a sticky roll and babbled on about the birth and other related details Katniss had to tune out in the interest of retaining her appetite, Katniss tucked into her own, her eyes finding Peeta every few seconds as they exchanged shy smiles.


	5. All This and Heaven Too

Peeta Mellark had absolutely no idea what to do with himself.

Since hobbling back from the Games, minus half a leg and plus a considerable degree of PTSD, his mother had forbidden his presence at the bakery. Something about associating with Seam rodents... or being tainted by association... some blathering drivel related in some loose manner with his beloved and reputations and frankly nothing at all that mattered in the slightest. Because, of course, she couldn't just be pleased her son had managed to return as part of the first co-victories in the history of the games. Surely the unique aspect of his victory would confer some manner of attention sufficient to offset any social degradation imparted by her fraternization, however remote, with a Seam resident?

Evidently not. So now he lacked not only a consistent vocation to monopolize significant portions of his time, but also a focal point around which his days would pivot, a framework within which his robotic, autopilot motions might manage to secure some degree of meaning.

He supposed he could secure employment elsewhere, but it seemed ridiculous to spend an entire lifetime cultivating one set of highly-specialized skills only to spontaneously abandon them and pursue another. That essentially summed up his life, now, he supposed - an endless procession of absurdity punctuated by bits of distraction, smooth slivers of chocolate amongst otherwise rough dough. He would never take a paying position from anyone, of course, but surely someone in town could use free labor? Not everyone could hold his love of a Seam inhabitant against him. He hoped.

Of course, Katniss' family had disowned her mother for marrying a coal miner. And he couldn't pretend he didn't notice the sidelong glares, the self-righteous huffs his presence seemed to summon on his rare forays into town. So much for hope.

He expelled a vicious huff of air and let his forehead topple forward against the cool metal of his newfangled Capitol refrigerator, pompous and arrogant even in its resolute absence of the falsely-cheerful colors that infused the remainder of the house. After drifting from Katniss' when it became evident Prim had no intention of departing, he had found himself pacing from his kitchen to his front door to his dining room, aimlessly drifting to nowhere, contemplating how best to distract himself from the stark reality of his daily life.

He would happily paint all day, every day, but lately his brush has only produced nightmares, and he's had quite enough of those. As for baking... in the past week he had created enough to overfeed a small army; or, more particularly, a contingent of Seam residents whom he actively has to deploy every ounce of charm he has ever possessed to convince, cajole and otherwise con them into accepting the gifts to which they seem inherently averse, which seems patently ridiculous to him considering he has too much and they too little so why not just let him help balance out the universe, for crying out loud.

Glancing up at the clock, he implores it to produce something close to the late afternoon hour around which Katniss would drift in from hunting. He had implored her to clean her game at his house, claiming it unsanitary to have dead animals prepared in the same area as a healer mixed medications, but really just seeking more hours wherein the relentless assault of solitude was tempered by the sparkling light prompted by proximity to his beloved. Resolutely ignoring his unspoken request, as was the customary manner of just about everyone and everything in the universe lately, it indicated four remaining, empty, wide open hours between the current time and her likely arrival.

Desperate for some measure of reprieve, he retrieved the deep blue flannel from the back of his door and set out for a walk.

.  
.  
.

Peeta Mellark tried not to hate. His father said it scarred the soul, and his personality wasn't particularly predisposed to the sentiment, anyway, so the overwhelming majority of the time, he found the mandate fairly easy to adhere.

But surely burning resentment and blistering jealousy skirted the prohibition? He hoped so, anyway, because they sure surged thick and fast every time he caught a glimpse of Gale Hawthorne.

He didn't want to revel in Gale's recent full-time progression to the mines in light of the misery they imparted and everything they represented, but he couldn't help the relief inspired by his increasing absence. It kept him from thinking about things like whether Katniss ever thought about Gale the way he thought about her.

How could she not, he reasoned. Her mother had passed over the baker in favor of the coal miner, and nothing about their current circumstances indicated that history wouldn't repeat itself. Unfortunate but realistic. And why not? The other boy had the whole "tall, dark and handsome" thing going for him, if the scuttlebutt to which his female friends had unwittingly subjected him in school had even a grain of truth. He didn't speak to anyone except his immediate family and Katniss, which afforded him that whole "mystery" thing that seemed a siren song to females. He did frequent the slag heap with almost alarming frequency, but what male didn't, in circumstances so dismal and hopeless as those in District 12?

Well... he didn't, obviously. So add "sexually inexperienced" to the list of qualities that made him pale in comparison to Gale. Shorter and less handsome, without longstanding family ties to Katniss, a "boring" personality and the whole Evil Mother thing, he really didn't have a leg to stand on. (Actually, he did - only one, though, which meant yet another mark on the list of his inadequacies.) He basically had nothing at all to offer, and no reason to believe he would triumph in the quest for Katniss' affections. But until she flat-out told him to stop, he would continue his efforts, all the while hoping Gale didn't sleep with too many people and wind up ruining Katniss' reputation by proxy when they did finally get together. What a fool, having the best as a hunting partner and still seeking the inferior.

The idiot in question sloped along several paces ahead of him, with his stupid dark hair falling in long tendrils and his stupid height towering over almost everyone. Female eyes honed in on the figure as it passed. Even on a casual walk, Gale managed to win. What was he doing in town, anyway? Didn't he hunt with Katniss on Sundays? Jeez, he was probably going to buy flowers or something. Would Peeta ever catch a break?

He really didn't need a walk after all.

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Katniss barreled in not long after he slunk home, several hours earlier than expected. Despite the wildly unfurling delight her presence invariably inspired, he couldn't help but perceive her distress, considering it presented itself with all the subtlety of a freight train slamming into a building. She huffed around his kitchen, slamming and stomping, until he gently probed, "Um, Katniss? Might there be something on your mind?" She remained silent, indicating that she either had receded so far in her head that his words hadn't even registered or she presumed he already knew the answer. After a moment's reflection, it floated up from the recesses of his mind, forged from years observing her. "I'm delighted to see you, and you're always welcome at any time… but don't you usually hunt with Gale on Sundays?"

She snorted and continued masticating the rabbit carcass on his counter. He exerted every effort not to blanche. "Gale and I aren't speaking."

His ears perked up. Actually perked up; he could almost picture himself as a dog, his auditory appendages suddenly swiveling to rapt attention. "Since when?"

"Since this morning." She jabbed at something in the rabbit's innards, producing a small burst of blood that seemed wholly unnecessary.

After almost a minute, when it became clear she had no intention of elaborating, he gently prompted, "Because...?"

"Because evidently I was supposed to fall in love with him, even though no one gave me the script to my own life. Evidently I'm not allowed to have my own opinions, I have to go along with what's expected of me."

Peeta froze, his heart slamming against the inside of his chest so vigorously his entire body jolted back and forth with every pulse. Of course Gale had made a move, just when Peeta had finally started to progress with her. Because life couldn't go his way, for once. "Katniss, the rabbit's dead," he approached and gently covered her knife hand with one of his own, then extricated the weapon with the other, placing it on the counter as though it might detonate. "Everyone figures you're with him. I always assumed as much."

"Why? Because we spent time together, pooling our resources and efforts to feed our families?" She crossed her arms over her chest with a fierce exhalation of breath. When she phrased it in such a manner, he felt downright chagrined. "Am I also dating Prim? She and I spend too much time in each other's company for it to be anything but platonic."

"I think people just assume, when people of opposite genders spend that degree of time together, that they'll eventually wind up together if they're not already."

At his observation Katniss paused, her eyes easing up to his with an expression he couldn't quite discern. Too late he realized the implication of his observation, that perhaps people assumed they would wind up together, independent of the Capitol's involvement, and that perhaps he presumed such, as well.

He expected a barrage of questions, perhaps a clipped remark or too reminding him of her determined reluctance to participate in the whole "romance" thing. Instead she set about rinsing her hands and softly inquired as to whether he would mind showing her how to make sugar cookies, Prim's favourite.

And several hours later, before they parted for dinner, she shocked him again with a shy question relayed with her chin toppled while she peered up at him beneath sooty lashes, as though he could deny her anything requested in such a manner.

"Feel like meeting me in the thicket behind the meadow tomorrow? Say, two o'clock?"

Always.

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Striding across the meadow toward the deep patch of trees that rimmed the south end, he wondered if she could perceive his approach even atop the cushy expanse of grass. He didn't quite understand what made his steps so substantially noticeable, but trusted her judgment.

He found her reclined against a tree, gazing up at the overcast sky. Behind a wad of clouds, the sun resolutely pushed to regain its dominance, resulting in a curious brightness tempered by the lack of direct sun. The deep green cast of the wildlife seemed to acquire a hazy glow.

"Hi," she intoned as he neared, confirming his theory.

"Hi." As he neared, he frantically cast about for the best means of settling himself onto the ground with his bum leg without appearing like the world's clumsiest inhabitant.

When she turned, those clear eyes piercing him anew with every glance, her attention clearly honed in on the sac clutched in his left hand. "I brought a lunch," he clarified.

"Of course you did." She smiled, though he wasn't quite sure how to interpret the motion as he lowered himself to the grass beside her, the strange Capitol leg deeply unaccommodating. Had he offended her by undercutting her tendency to provide? Perhaps she had wanted to hunt for lunch?

He must have appeared wounded, because she quickly elaborated, "You're the most considerate person I've ever met."

"Oh." He felt a flush rush up his neck and, for the upteenth time, lamented the translucent skin that refused to keep secrets. "Thanks."

He didn't bother inquiring as to whether she would prefer to investigate his lunch provisions immediately; her eyes kept migrating to the sac, clearly interested in what it might produce. Even despite her newfound consistent access to income and edibles, she always seemed interested in a meal. It pinged his heart with a sharp sorrow.

For all that he generally deplored the Capitol, it did produce some nifty kitchen devices so useful he didn't bother resisting their allure. For instance, the steel container that kept the hot chocolate warm, and contained two detachable cups. Or the carrying sac that insulated the sandwiches and baggies of fruit it contained. The right side of Katniss' mouth coiled into a smile as she inhaled a deep sniff of the still-warm bread encasing her sandwich, then peeled it back to recognize a sliver of the pheasant she had gifted him. "Alright?" He rocked an eyebrow.

"Perfect," she replied with that smile that illuminated all shadows.

As they conquered their rations, though, she seemed profoundly unsettled, eyes flickering around and movements disjointed, almost hesitant. His mind retreated to that morning, his blind pursuit of an impulse that he couldn't consider for too long without abandoning his grip on reality and losing himself to daydream. "Katniss, if I made you uncomfortable this morning, I'm sorry."

"No!" She rushed to counter his assumption. "No, I just... I don't know how to do any of this."

This? Eating lunch? The sandwich didn't seem to be offering much of a fight. "Any of what?"

One hand disengaged to motion frantically between them. "This. I've never liked anyone before."

Liked? Liked? She likes me?!

Just as he decided he ought to stop staring uncomprehendingly at her in the interest of not seeming creepy or mentally unstable, she continued. "Peeta... um. You know the... pretending, in the Games. It's just..." She paused and used her free hand to tear at some unsuspecting blades of grass by her knee, eyes flickering back and forth between nonexistent objects as she scrambled for the appropriate words. He wondered if his entire body jerked with every slam of his suddenly overly-ambitious heartbeat. "You've had years. I've only had a few weeks." Finally she met his eyes, and he scarcely dared to hope. "Just... give me some time to catch up?"

His face pulled into an earsplitting grin seemingly without his involvement. "Of course. Take as long as you want."

Peeta Mellark decided, much to his surprise, that maybe this whole "life" thing would work out just fine, after all.

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You're certainly not obligated in any manner, but a review would be infinitely appreciated! Thank you for taking the time to read!


	6. Deus ex Panifex

The Quell announcement arrived, worse than he could have dreamed.

A cold coil of dread threaded through his veins, calcifying his limbs such that he would rival the stone statues adorning the Capital gates in stillness. His surroundings seemed to freeze as a thick slab of panic slammed into his chest, knocking the wind straight out of him. The likelihood of this double jeopardy Quarter Quell being sheer coincidence as opposed to Snow’s blatant, deliberate method of obliterating his two most formidable opponents was so minimal as to be summarily dismissed. The dictator had, quite simply, sentenced both of them to certain death.

Peeta found himself bartering at Haymitch’s, pleading for her life, playing the card that last time Haymitch had sacrificed his interests and now owed him, taking the low blow of banking on the older man’s Seam sense of fair play to secure his argument’s success. He then shuffled out of his mentor’s train wreck of an abode in pursuit of dinner, noting that his own ridiculously-oversized house would never have the opportunity to achieve such a state as soon no one would be around to inhabit it.

He also wondered at Katniss’s absence. An inquiry of her whereabouts proves futile when Katniss’ door swings open to reveal a red-eyed woman and her hysterical lookalike daughter, both of whom genuinely profess ignorance.

He presumed she had enshrouded herself in the forest. Unlike him, she did not seek comfort in others. She scrambled to solitude and eventually drifted back, stoic and relatively settled.

Peeta used some of yesterday’s rabbit to create a meat pie and did not bother to invite Haymitch over, simply preparing a plate and toting it with a fresh loaf back to the pit of broken dreams and abandoned hopes. Somehow managed to tug Haymitch to the table, coaxing and prodding whilst the older man grumbled and muttered and generally bemoaned life in every manner.

He found himself assessing the pie’s innards, considering the infusion of additional pepper on the next go, when something clonked against the door, tumbling through it and stumbling down the hall. The type of entrance Peeta would attribute to Haymitch, were the grump not positioned adjacent to him at the table.

He almost fell off his chair when Katniss clamored into the room, careening against the chair closest to the door. Completely disheveled, from the rumpled clothing to the hastily-arranged hair, complete with a leaf lodged by her ear.

“Katniss?” Peeta gasped, rising so quickly his chair toppled backwards.

Katniss spun wildly to face him, almost toppling over with the movement, then startled as though she had never seen anything quite like him. “Peeta! Hey!”

“Are you…” Peeta’s mouth fumbled over the intended descriptor, as he could not form a correlation between her current state of ineptitude and the sagacious creature who had long ago ensnared his heart.

Katniss squinted at him, then shuffled forward to stand in front of him. Peered up, and he wondered not for the first time what the world looked like from six inches below. “You have the most beautiful hair. Has anyone ever told you that?”

Haymitch emitted a protrusion of air between a snort and a huff which Peeta chose to interpret as amusement instead of disbelief, before his coherent thoughts scattered like a brick dropping on a pile of flour when Katniss reached up and he felt her fingers knead into the hair just above his neck. A glistening of awareness twinkled across his limbs and electrified his thoughts. “And you’re sooo handsome. It’s just unfair for one person to be that good-looking.”

Yep. Definitely drunk.

Katniss raised the clear bottle to her lips and tipped it, her lack of so much as a flinch in response to the fierce liquid indicating prolonged exposure.

Peeta reached for the bottle she clutched in her right hand like a magic wand, prying her fingers from where she had gripped the neck. He sniffed lightly at the bottle’s head, the scent spiking memories of merchant parties of years past. “Is this… alcohol?”

“Yeaaaaaaap.” She nodded, her head seeming to bob on inertia. “Sureeeee is!”

“You eat anything today?” Haymitch gaped at Katniss as one might gawk at a mouse adeptly navigating a tiny unicycle.

“Not hungry.”

“Good luck tomorrow,” Haymitch raised his bottle to Peeta, not even attempting to disguise his schadenfreude.

“Katniss, stop this!” A blend of rage and frustration unique to situations involving this one particular female surged forward. “We’re supposed to be strategizing for the Quell!”

“The Quell!” She gasped, her eyes illuminating as though she had just remembered its existence. “Right...” She snapped her jaw on the last consonant, instantly converting to the steel that occasionally terrified him. Even suspended beyond inebriation, she managed to convey a complete willingness and ability to shred human opposition to pieces. “I don’t want to win, Peeta.”

“You’re going to,” Peeta felt himself bristle inwardly. “We’re going to train, and you’re going to win.”

A dark shadow crossed her face, cutting straight through her inebriation, like clouds momentarily blotting out the moon.

“Do you know what happens to people once they win? Do you know what Snow does to winners? He sells them. To the highest bidder, in the Capital.” At Peeta’s uncomprehending gaze, she elaborated. “Oh, Haymitch didn’t tell you? Yeah, conveniently forgot to mention it to me, too. Somehow left prostitution out of the mentoring sessions.”

Peeta’s stomach recoiled, and he felt as though any edible substances in his stomach would surge upward and reacquaint themselves with the open air as a thick shaft of blackness seemed to coil around him. He turned to Haymitch, hoping for some sort of rebuttal, any modicum of dissidence. But the almost sheepish expression he encountered sent a bolt of undiluted panic down his spine, and his pulse snapped into overdrive.

“How…” Haymitch sputtered.

“Johanna called,” Katniss announced. “That axe victor from a few years back? Once I figured out how to use the blasted phone, she took particular delight in informing me of what lay ahead.”

Haymitch gaped at her, seemingly nonplussed to the point that his trusty flask of avoidance rested, forgotten, on the table. “Why would the girl do a stupid thing like that?”

“Well, evidently you’re alllllllll in agreement about my not deserving Peeta.”

“What’s this now?” Peeta prompted.

“Oh,” Katniss sloppily turned in her chair to face him, leaning slightly to suggest the imminent relayance of a manner of great import. “Evidently I could live a thousand… lifetimes… and never deserve you.”

“That’s preposterous,” Peeta scoffed. If anything, a quantifiable assessment of the situation would indicate precisely the opposite. “Who put that in your head?”

Her eyes dropped and she shuffled back to face the table, returning to her drink.

Sheesh. Pump a little alcohol in the girl and one learned all manner of things.  
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Later that night he toted Katniss back to her house, but only after issuing what he considered a thorough verbal whipping to the idiot evidently determined to drive his charges apart. Finding Prim and her mother clutching each other in one of their beds, he secured a pillow and blanket from one of the twenty thousand adjoining bedrooms and fashioned a makeshift slumber spot on the floor between Katniss and the door. While the cold floor didn’t offer much by way of comfort, he had certainly conquered worse in the course of his efforts to avoid his mother.

He doesn’t even bother to close his eyes, instead watching shadows cast by pale moonlight across the ceiling and wondering how in the world they were going to get out of this. Each brainstorm receives a resounding dismissal by way of picturing how Snow would retaliate by harming their families, and inspires a fresh round of anxiety that flushes through his entire body and corrodes like acid.

Hours, days, years, decades later, he realizes with a cold thump of panic that the only way for all of them, the victors and their families, to escape punishment and likely torture would be for all of them to die. Which was just magnificent.

On the bright side, he can no longer use “I should have just eaten the damn berries and let Katniss win” to flaggelate himself. It wouldn’t have done her any favours.

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Upon waking, Katniss declares that she can’t bear any maudlin profusions of emotion today, and insists they retreat to Peeta’s house. Several cups of coffee strong enough to curl hair seem to push her out of general misery and into the somewhat functioning realm. He notices that she seems restless, unsettled, by turns gazing out the window or absently at the fire.

“Let’s take a walk,” Peeta finally suggested gently. Katniss complied without protest, that in itself indicative of her mental state.

They drift toward town until passerby start casting pitying gazes in their direction, then veer sharply toward the forest. Evidently noticing Peeta’s hesitance, which he had attempted quite assiduously to disguise, she retrieved her bow and arrows from its hiding place and they moseyed through her territory.

After more than an hour of silent wandering, they happen on a pair of weeping willows. While they’re certainly lovely, something about them commands attention. Almost as though they contained a variant of silent siren song, drawing them in.

“Huh,” Katniss furrowed her brow, seeming wholly complexed by the pair of trees.

“Never seen a tree before?” Peeta teased.

“I’ve never seen these trees before,” Katniss clarified, beginning to cut a circle around the offending foliage as a dog might pivot around a porcupine, uncertain how to proceed.

“They seem pretty old, considering their size,” Peeta noted, gazing at the long strands of leaves ruffling in the slight breeze. “You must have encountered them previously.”

“No, I haven’t.” Katniss punctuated the definitive statement by crossing her arms, seeming genuinely troubled by the landscape. While he would not even pretend to understand her fixation on the foliage, he was relieved to have her attention even momentarily diverted from their impending doom.

“You’ve been in this area of the forest?” Peeta prompted.

“Not regularly,” Katniss conceded, “But enough that I would have noticed weeping willows. They’re not exactly common in twelve.”

Peeta shrugged. “Perhaps someone planted them here?”

“One of the rich victors?” Katniss intoned dubiously.

Peeta had to concede the point, instead striding forward to sprawl on his back beneath one of the trees and gazing up at the branches. Some sort of root lodged itself just beneath his left shoulder blade and a few pebbles dug into his back, but once Katniss followed suit, he did not dare to move.

Nothing untoward happens for a moment. They lay side by side, gazing up at the trees and the somber sky casting its pale beams like a spotlight. Shades of spinach and olive, kelly green and jade flickered against each other, seeming almost to glisten in their continual movement.

For that split second Peeta feels almost okay. Peaceful in the company of his beloved and the simple complexity of nature existing overhead.

Then everything went black.


	7. Dreams or Secrets

AN: Apologies for the considerable delay that precipitated this chapter. As you might have noticed, my writing experience has not proven fruitful of late (comprising a good amount of time gazing forlornly at the screen, imploring words to materialize independent of my involvement) but I appear to be back on track for regular updates. My infinite gratitude to anyone who commented on this story… it sparks the imagination and produces a goofy grin of glee every time. (I suppose psychedelics would help, as well, but that’s a method I won’t be trying.)

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“I always feel: when one person is indebted to another for something very special, that indebtedness should remain a secret just between the two of them.”

\- Rilke, _A Love Story in Letters_

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“The good news is you can cross over,” Haymitch muttered as he shuffled around in his desk, hopefully in pursuit of something that had not absorbed the stench pervading the remainder of his belongings. Random items tumbled out the sides of the drawer as he burrowed, bits of an orange peel that had started to fossilize and yellowing notes long forgotten.

“Cross over?” Katniss heard herself with no minor measure of befuddlement. “To where?”

Haymitch “The bad news is _also_ that you can cross over, meaning someone managed to kill you there.”

“Kill us _where_?” Katniss startled as Peeta’s familiar baritone gave form to her thoughts, glancing over to find he had materialized seemingly out of nowhere beside her. For a moment the situation faded from her attention as she seemed exclusively capable of focusing on the figure beside her, his bright hair and kind eyes and impossibly handsome features.

Somewhere on the fringes of her senses, Haymitch’s voice hazed back into notice as he continued blathering irrespective of Peeta’s inquiry, “But at least you won’t be forced into anything there.”

“Haymitch!” Peeta snapped. “ _Finish a complete sentence!_ ”

Finally, Haymitch turned from the desk with the calm, focused expression she typically associated with Peeta as he perfected a delicate frosting flower before reaching over to add a bit of warm goop to the edge of her nose. The type of countenance that his alcohol consumption typically prohibited.

“What if I told you I could ensure your families were safe and you wouldn’t have to go to the Capitol?” His pale Seam eyes flickered between them. “Would you do it?”

Katniss couldn’t help a scoff. “What’s the completely gigantic catch?”

Again his expression evolved, this time reflecting a certainty of sorrow as he specifically focused on her. “You’d never be able to see your families again. As far as Panem’s concerned, both of you will have simply vanished.”

Silence for several beats before Peeta’s soothing tones punctured the void. “Won’t that be awfully suspicious, if one day we just… disappear?”

“Of course,” Haymitch steepled his fingers, seeming satisfied, as though they had produced precisely the correct question to advance the conversation in the manner he had intended. “Which is why we’ll have to fake your deaths.”

“What about Prim?” Katniss piped up, the fringes of panic skimming the edges of her nerves such that she felt infused with the impulse to flee. “I can’t leave her.”

“But you have to,” Haymitch’s voice softened into something almost… empathetic? “The alternative is-”

Something she absolutely, positively did not want to consider, or even speak aloud, so she punted in a simple monosyllabic acknowledgement to halt the verbal consideration before it progressed. “Yeah.” She found herself suddenly, startlingly aware of Peeta’s physical presence beside her.

The comfortingly disconcerting figure beside her gave voice to her thoughts yet again, either predicting her concern and accounting for it or actually acquiring it himself. “But President Snow will just punish them for our disappearance.”

“He won’t have the chance,” Haymitch insisted. “Both of your families have already boarded a hovercraft and are headed to thirteen. They’re just waiting on me.”

“Thirteen doesn’t exist.”

“Oh, but it does. They’ve agreed to house me and your families, and even that hissing mongrel of Prim’s, but they wouldn’t take you in.”

“Because…” Katniss prompted.

“Because it’s not time for the revolution yet. They’re not ready. They want to wait until the opportune time,” Haymitch’s eyes seemed to bore into her like steel. “But I’m not willing to let you both live like Finnick until they decide it’s time to finally stand against the Capitol.”

She felt more than sensed Peeta shift beside her, and after a moment the large fingers of his left hand weaved into her right, clasping tightly. She found herself struck again by their relative size disparity, how if one fashioned them of clay the sculptor would require three Katnisses to make one Peeta. Without considering the action, she leaned into his warmth, blindly seeking that security he somehow always offered.

“Snow won’t be able to track us down?” Katniss inquired, her voice seeming tiny to her ears.

“No.”

Well, even if Haymitch’s advice proved incorrect, his resolve certainly offered some degree of comfort. She glanced up at Peeta and he echoed the motion, one eyebrow twitching as though to prompt, “Well?” Awaiting her direction, as always. Yet another person who put altogether too much faith in her.

“I…” Katniss swallowed around the rock that had materialized in the back of her throat at the prospect of leaving Prim. “I guess we’ll do it.”

“That’s a relief,” Haymitch stood. “Because, sweetheart, your house is currently on fire.”

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Be it a vision, a dream, or a brief foray into insanity, the interaction with Haymitch vanished with a blink and the world as she last remembered it surged back into existence, the bumpy ground flush against her back with grass tickling her shoulders as she gazed up at the intricate dances of willow branches.

Except it wasn’t the world as she remembered. The climate, most notably, had severely increased to the point that she could empathize with the poor hunks of dough Peeta shoved into the ovens. A fierce sunlight skittered between the willow branches, prompting the rapid squint of unprepared eyes and a frantic shuffle to push themselves into vertical positions.

Utter silence reigned for a moment, shock encasing them like a white haze of blotted noise.

Katniss formed an unidentified syllable before her breath cut off and she lapsed back into silence. She had never before experienced her mouth actually _falling open_ in shock, but it would not seem to close as she gaped at her surroundings with eyes so wide the breeze threatened to tug tears from the corners.

The seemingly-innocuous and perfectly ordinary forest they had inhabited just a moment ago had simply vanished. She and Peeta found themselves standing side-by-side in the middle of a vast meadow, a massive expanse of unimpeded grasses punctuated by dots of yellow wildflowers and exuberant, fluffy-tipped weeds. Far ahead, massive trees indicating tremendous health in their mammoth size and glossy emerald sheen had gathered themselves into either a patch of trees or the circumference of a forest. The weeping willows swayed calmly behind them to some faraway rhythm only they could discern.

“It’s beautiful,” Peeta whispered, his voice stooped as though in reverence. Katniss attempted to produce a sound indicating concurrence, but filtered through her abject shock it emerged as almost a scoff. They gaped at their new surroundings, standing sentinel side-by-side, their arms brushing.

“It’s impossible,” she heard herself note, her eyes still licking the promising greenery in the distance.

“That, too,” Peeta concurred, his head swiveling to scan the skyline. The midday sun cast golden highlights on his thick profusion of curly hair, and despite the distraction of her altered surroundings (or perhaps as a reflection of their impossibility), she found herself gawking at the dulcet colours.

“Are we dreaming?” Katniss wondered aloud, finally recovering enough to formulate words approaching coherence.

A moment later she felt a sharp pinch on the outside of her wrist. Bounding lightly away, she reached over to thwack a grinning Peeta across the chest. It had all the effect of a pebble against a stone wall.

“Ex _cuse_ you!” She huffed, continuing her attempts to thwat him but her hand never quite finding purchase on his chest. Her indignation completely evaporated when Peeta produced a series of breathy laughs. Sunlight ricocheted off the fair skin of his face, gleaming against the light brush of pale blonde stubble that coated his chin. The sight did something strange to her stomach.

Peeta seized her moment of distraction to encase her wrists, twirling her around so he stood directly behind her, holding her arms across her chest. She felt him drop his chin lightly against the top of her head and didn’t bother to struggle against his grip, instead muttering on a sigh, “What…”

“No idea.” Peeta responded to the inquiry she had scarcely produced.

A fierce trickle of dread threaded down her spine and sent words ricocheting into the air: “Did Snow summon us to the Capital without our knowing?” For surely if their minions could dematerialize the most horrific of body aberrations and formulate the most extraordinary of hellish arenas, they could devise a means of transporting humans against their will. They probably only shuffled the reaped around on trains to preserve the illusion of conformity to the conventional laws of transportation and physics.

“They’d never take us anywhere so beautiful,” Peeta countered, ever the voice of reason.

Katniss couldn’t argue with that.

 

 

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